street to Tortora’s rear door. He tried the knob, and it, too, was locked.
“Shit. Okay, call a tactical team in, stat, and get someone who can pick this lock.”
“All right, boss. I’m on it.”
Cruz fumed at how close they’d gotten, only to be stymied at the one yard line. He returned to the shop and briefed Julio. The pair settled in to wait for the tactical team. That could take a while.
“Looks like we got made somehow,” Cruz said.
“I don’t see how, though. Really. It makes no sense,” Julio answered.
Cruz paced back and forth. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. His phone began ringing, but before he could answer it both Julio and he were startled by a figure opening the front door of the shop. A young woman entered, as surprised to see them as they clearly were to see her.
“Oh. I’m sorry…I…you surprised me. May I help you?” she asked them.
Cruz took her in. Medium height, maybe early thirties at most, huge brown eyes and wavy black hair. A face that was unconventionally beautiful. Conservatively dressed. Counterfeit Dolce and Gabbana purse and sunglasses, he noted — one of the many occupational habits of being a cop.
Julio spoke first.
“What do you mean, can you help us? We’re waiting to see
“Oh, well, he should be here. Let me go back and see,” she said, returning the smile with considerably less enthusiasm. She eyed Cruz and shot him a smile, too, then moved past them to the door. She fiddled with her keys, and turned to face them.
“Uh, do you mind? Could you move over by the front door? I’m feeling a little crowded here, and I don’t want to open this with you standing beside me. Security and all. No offense,” she apologized, holding her keys at the ready.
Julio glanced at Cruz.
“Of course. I’m terribly sorry. It was thoughtless of us. Please. We’ll just be right here.” Julio motioned at the area by the front door and moved there, pulling Cruz’s sleeve. He stepped over as well.
“Will that work for you?” Cruz asked.
“Thank you. I’ll see where he is.” She slipped through the door as she spoke.
They waited patiently, Julio tapping his foot, Cruz cleaning his nails. She returned to the little showroom area a few moments later, puzzled.
“That’s strange. He’s not here. He’s always here. Hmm. I wish he would carry his cell phone; then I could call him. He leaves it in his apartment upstairs, or in the car. He’s lousy with things like that,” she explained. “I didn’t get your names…”
“I’m sorry. Very rude of us. This is Senor Albon, and I am Raphael Contreras. And you are?” Julio extended his hand.
“I’m his daughter. Dinah Tortora. Pleased to meet you both. Is there something I can help you with since my father has, erm, disappeared for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking their hands in turn.
“We were really hoping to speak to him in person. A delicate matter he was helping us with,” Julio said.
Dinah looked confused.
“Delicate matter? Hmm, okay…you know, if you don’t mind, I’ll run upstairs and check on him. Now I’m a little worried. Maybe he slipped and hurt himself or something,” Dinah said, and made for the front door. Both men stepped aside, Julio making a courtly mini bow. They watched as she left the shop and made a right, going to the apartments.
“What’s with the Don Juan act?” Cruz chided.
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous. What, are you blind?”
“Her father is
“Party pooper. I didn’t get the hit man vibe from her. Did you? I don’t think she knows anything. That’s where my money’s at.” Julio winked.
“Maybe. But there’s no way to be sure-”
They were cut off by a scream of horror from the apartments.
Chapter 9
Cruz and Julio raced to the small apartment entrance’s foyer, to be greeted through the glass door by the sight of Dinah staggering down the stairs from the corridor above, obviously in shock, with blood on her hands and dress. The street door was locked, so they had to wait for her to reach them and open it, tears streaming down her pale face as she grabbed at the handle reflexively.
Once the door was open, Cruz grabbed her by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Dinah? What happened?” he asked, processing the blood on her and fearing the worst.
“It’s…my father…”
Julio looked up the stairway with trepidation, and then back at Cruz.
He nodded, and Julio mounted the stairs while Cruz hugged Dinah, who was sobbing against his chest and howling her agonized grief. He had done this hundreds of times in his career, but it never got any easier; each time took a little out of him. Her slender torso shuddered as she struggled to breath, fighting for air between strangled exclamations of pain. Any doubts he had about whether she was involved in her father’s business slipped away — this wasn’t a woman accustomed to the business of death.
Julio returned from the apartment looking wan. He was in the cesspool every day, dealing with the parasites of humanity, not in a combat squad, so he wasn’t used to seeing corpses on a weekly basis. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“It’s bad.”
“Call Briones, and have him get a full crime scene team here. Take care of Dinah. I want to go take a look at what we’ve got,” Cruz instructed, gently pushing Dinah into Julio’s arms.
At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by a short corridor with four entries, one of which was now ajar, and one of which squeaked on its hinges as he slowly walked to the open door. An old woman’s head poked out, scowling with disapproval.
“What’s all the yelling about?” she demanded loudly.
“There’s been an accident. Go back inside, and lock your door,” Cruz answered.
“What, are you fighting with a girlfriend? Did you hit her? Is that the story?” the woman stormed, sure that Cruz was up to no good.
“
She spat an expletive under her breath, and then the door slammed shut, the sound of multiple deadbolts engaging filtering into the hall. The other occupants were probably all at work, so for a while there would be some peace in which to process the scene. That was the only good news so far.
He pushed the door open cautiously with his toe, avoiding touching the knob even though he knew Dinah had already done so. It creaked open. Cruz entered the tiny living room, wishing he had his gun with him, and stopped when he saw the body lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. He’d seen hundreds of corpses in his time, but nothing like this — the man was nearly bisected, from his shoulder to his hip. Cause of death wouldn’t be too tough on this one. What the hell could cause this kind of butchery? A splatter pattern at least six feet wide surrounded the body, evidencing that he’d been cut down where he lay.
He scanned the room and answered his own question. A plaque holding a short Japanese dagger in its scabbard was mounted to the wall, and the pegs above the dagger were empty, dust clearly indicating where a longer katana had resided. Cruz took several more steps into the room and saw the weapon lying on the floor, covered with blood, the scabbard discarded nearby. The blood was fresh, no more than an hour old, he knew from jaded experience. Soon the flies would come, but as of now, it was just the two of them.
Jaime Tortora, whatever his sins, had seen his last morning, and their hopes of closing in on
